“Wasn’t planning on it, was I?” she said. She hesitated. “Mind if I ask why?”
“Yours is not to ask why, merely to do and die,” he said, mangling the quote. She made to reply, but he was already out the door. He made his way downstairs and then out onto the street, where Morris was waiting. The man from the Ministry was glaring at his pocket-watch as if it had said a rude word, and he snapped it shut as St. Cyprian joined him.
“Well?” Morris said.
“They—the unfortunates in that garret—were holding a séance,” St. Cyprian said. “Something contacted them.”
Morris looked at him. “A ghost,” he said, almost hopefully.
“No,” St. Cyprian said grimly. “We have to find it, the sooner the better, and the survivors as well. Otherwise I have no doubt there’ll be more blood spilled—seas and messes of it.”
4.
Dover Street, Mayfair, London
“It’s him, I’m telling you,” Eddowes said, his voice hoarse and edged with exhaustion. He looked around the table at the other members of the Whitechapel Club. “I saw it. I saw him. It took Stride. It flowed into him, and filled him and covered him and then he—the others, he—he killed them.” Red memories flowered in his head and he hastily shoved them back down. He’d been in a state of near-panic since things had taken a turn for the wrong in the garret.
After recovering his wits, he’d made his way back to Dover Street as quickly as possible. The civilized bustle of Mayfair and the familiar Georgian facades of the other clubs on the street provided no comfort, and he abandoned his car reluctantly for the basement meeting rooms of the Club. The doorman, dressed in black, and wearing an executioner’s hood, had admitted him readily enough, and the others had been waiting eagerly for news. There were only a dozen members of the club at any one time, and the remaining seven were at the Gallows Table when he was ushered in by Ketch, the doorman. When he’d told his story, they had fallen quiet, their excitement dampened by the news of their fallen associates. The club had lost members before; but never in one swoop, and never when so close to success.
“So, it worked,” one of them said finally in a muffled voice—Stott, Eddowes thought. Like the others, he wore a white plaster death-mask, made to resemble a prominent murder victim. Though they all knew one another’s identities in a general sort of fashion, there were certain traditions to be observed—the masks were part of it, as were their club names, taken from the victims whose faces they had appropriated. Eddowes’ own mask lay on the table before him as the masks of those who’d been butchered in the garret lay to mark their empty places at the table.
“Stride’s plan worked! You found him. You found Saucy Jack himself,” Stott went on eagerly, motioning to the chair at the head of the table. That chair—the only one without a mask before it—was always empty, reserved for the president-elect of the Whitechapel Club, an honorary member who’d never bothered to show up.
Until now, Eddowes thought, and suppressed a giggle that would have become a shriek, if he’d dared let it out. He could feel it in his head, like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Out of the corner of his eye, under the surface his thoughts, he could see—blood, spattering across brick—things and hear—a man screamed, high and shrill as a shark’s grin was reflected in his bulging eyes—voices and he thrust the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to rub out the images that sprang unbidden into his mind. “If it wasn’t him, it was doing a convincing impersonation,” he said, hollowly. Once again, he saw the red eyes and that grin—God, that grin!—and the terrible silvery gleam of that blade that had seemed to spring from nowhere. He felt like the man in the folk-story, with a fox in his belly, trying to gnaw its way out. To distract himself, he looked around the club common room, trying to take comfort in the familiar.
The walls were decorated with Indian blankets soaked with blood, nooses used in hangings, knives used in stabbings, and morgue photos of executed criminals and killers. A number of glass-faced display frames lined with flattened bullets, pried from the bodies of assassinated judges, policemen, politicians and philosophers occupied the closest wall. The lights were kept low, as always, and a servant, wearing an executioner’s hood, brought a tray of stoppered skulls, filled with something dark and alcoholic. The skulls were real, bought at auction from the University of Edinburgh. Supposedly, they had belonged to bodies provided to the University by Burke and Hare, two more honorary members.
All of the items on display were of that nature—sacred artefacts, baptised in blood, not all of it innocent. The club itself was a temple of slaughter, where the sin of Cain was elevated to the highest of holies and treated as gospel. Besides Gentleman Jack and the body-snatchers, honorary members included the infamous Thomas Neill Cream and the American, Henry Howard Holmes, both of whom had contributed to the club’s collection, albeit posthumously. The Whitechapel Club was a place where gentlemen with a taste for the red side of life could indulge their hobbies and passions, as they worshipped at the altar of murder. And their president-elect, though he’d been inducted without his knowledge, was the most famous murderer of all—Jack the Ripper.
Eddowes wasn’t as interested in death, however, as he was in life—eternal life, in fact. And he only cared about a back-alley butcher like the Ripper, honorary member or not, because it seemed that he was the surest path to that goal. It had taken the Club, not to mention other, more important investors, much time and treasure to get to this point. The trail was decades cold, and the participants were retired, dead, or missing. The fraudulent psychic, Robert James Lees, had been the one to convince them that the president-elect had been forcibly moved on to more aetheric pastures.
The Club had tracked Lees to Devon, and Eddowes had overseen the interrogation himself. The old man had given them the same story he’d been pushing for years on anyone who would listen, but from his panicked ramblings Stride had been able to glean certain useful elements. And in the end, it was Stride who’d realised what their quarry had been up to, during his grisly East End practice.
“Yes, we found him, and now it—he—is loose and on the hunt in London again,” he continued, after composing himself. He shuddered. His hands shook and his suit was flecked and dabbed with dried blood. The revolver was heavy in his pocket, but the weight wasn’t as comforting as it had been. He’d put three bullets in the thing that had been Stride, but it hadn’t even twitched. It had just laughed and bounded out the door. He’d been relieved, at the time. But now that relief had curdled into terror.
Jadwiga and the woman had gone out the window, even as he’d headed for the door. He hadn’t bothered to stop them. At the time, he’d only been thinking of escape. He regretted it now, however. If he could have brought them back—or even just the woman—it might have alleviated his failure somewhat. And he had failed whatever the result had been.
The Ripper had returned, but he was not with the club, where he belonged. He was loose, and doing God only knew what with his newfound lease on life. Eddowes possessed not a modicum of the psychical sensitivity that Stride had claimed, but he could feel the creature nonetheless. It was like a bit of grit caught between cloth and flesh, an annoyance flaring into an agony every so often. Sometimes, he could feel cobbles beneath his feet, though he wasn’t walking, and could taste fog in the back of his throat, though it wasn’t foggy outside.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing, old man,” another clubman, Pitezel, put in, startling Eddowes from his reverie. “Isn’t that rather what we wanted, to see London swimming in blood and carnage and all that sort of thing?”
“Yes, but not our blood, old sport,” a third, Stack, said. “He butchered Kelly, Chapman and Nichols, and is apparently wearing poor Stride like some sort of fancy dress! That’s just not cricket, I don’t care if he is the bloody president-elect.”
“Well it’s not like we can do a damned thing about it, is there?” someone said. It was one of the newer members, Wilson. Others nodded in silent agreement—Donwort
h, Clover, and Holton.
“We can,” Eddowes said. “We must.”
“Oh get off the bloody cross, we could do with the wood,” Pitezel said, putting his skull down. “We wanted to find Jack the Ripper’s ghost. We found him. Who’s for darts?”
Eddowes smacked the table. “We didn’t just find him, you imbecile! We brought him back!”
“Well, I hate to be that fellow, but technically, you didn’t,” Stott said smugly. He motioned to the empty chair. Eddowes tensed. Stott sounded happy, and a happy Stott was a dangerous Stott. “Actually, I’m beginning to get rather steamed about the whole thing, if you don’t mind me saying so,” Stott continued cheerfully. “We sent you out to bring us back a ghost, and instead, you lost four of our fellows, and the ghost to boot, and you didn’t even get the money back from that dratted medium. Bad show, old boy,” Stott concluded. He raised his hand and made a sharp gesture. “Ketch, if you would…”
Eddowes felt the hempen noose slither over his head milliseconds before the knot dug into the base of his skull and he was jerked up from his seat by the doorman. Mr. Ketch was far stronger than he looked and he easily lifted Eddowes from his seat and into the air, knocking his chair over in the process. “Could he do that in the other room? Only we haven’t gotten the stains out from the last time,” Pitezel said in a bored tone.
Eddowes gasped and jerked, clawing at the noose as Ketch slowly throttled him. The doorman was a champion throttler. He’d have won trophies for his techniques if such a competition had existed. Eddowes had seen this done many times and had even had Ketch deal with annoyances of one sort or another himself, more than once. The irony of finding himself in a similar situation was not lost on him, though he was too preoccupied to appreciate it fully.
He kicked at the table, sending liquid slopping from the skulls and knocking his own over. “On the other hand, Eddowes might be right,” Stack said. “I mean, we do still need to have a bit of a chat with the fellow, seeing as he is out and about and all.”
“Too, with Mr. Stride hors de combat that leaves our friend Eddowes as the only one of us familiar with all this Osirian nonsense,” Clover spoke up, drumming his fingers on the table. “I, for one, like the idea of eternal life, but not enough to spend several years getting mould on my best waistcoat while pouring over musty old texts and hoary old papyri.”
“Not to mention the—ah—other parties involved,” Holton said, hesitantly. “They might not be quite so keen on Eddowes getting the sack before he’s had a chance to make good.” The others muttered amongst themselves as the implications thereof sank in. Stott grunted sourly. He didn’t like being reminded of the other fellows.
Spots of colour danced in front of Eddowes’ eyes. He lapped desperately at the air as he fumbled in his pocket for his revolver. His hands felt numb however, and his fingers batted and slid bonelessly across the weapon. Ketch really was quite strong. And he knew his business.
“Who’s for a vote?” Donworth said.
“I second,” Holton said, raising a hand.
“Oh very well,” Stott said. “Show of hands, gents—who’s for topping Eddowes and adjourning to the parlour for billiards, and who’s for sparing him the cost of a trip in Charon’s gondola?”
“Can we still play billiards if we spare him?” Wilson said.
“I don’t see why not,” Stack said, knocking on the table and raising his hand. “Let him live, says I.”
One by one, the others raised their hands, all save Stott who shrugged. “Fine, Ketch…let ‘em live, I guess.”
Ketch loosened the knot and Eddowes slumped forward over the table, gasping. Stott sniffed and prodded Eddowes in the side of the head. “Right, well, best compose yourself, chum. You’ve got a Ripper to run down. Mr. Ketch will help you, I think.” He looked up. “Now, someone mentioned billiards?”
5.
Limehouse, the East End, London
“You’re certain that this is the place?” St. Cyprian said, looking at the Ministry agent. The man glanced at Morris, as if for confirmation, and then nodded. St. Cyprian sighed and looked across the street at the riverside laundry that lurked between a slop shop and a gin shop. He knew the place, though he wished he didn’t.
The family that ran it claimed to be Tibetan, or Burmese, depending on the day and the nature of the discussion, but St. Cyprian suspected they had different origins. They sometimes sold handcrafted charms and previously-owned amulets out of the shop, and he’d bought one of the latter during his investigation into a missing gourmand named Klein, who’d entered Limehouse in search of a certain infamous dish he’d become obsessed with, during the War. He’d never found Klein, but he still had the amulet. It was engraved with a strange mandala that gave him a raging headache and a bad case of the frighteners if he studied it for too long.
He pushed aside the thought of missing gourmands and mystery dishes and concentrated on the area. Even with his third eye wedged firmly shut, Limehouse impressed itself upon his senses. And it wasn’t simply the psychic impressions of the place that were overpowering. This close to the Thames, the air was thick with the omnipresent tang of the river, and the West India Docks.
Limehouse had been born in the Sixteenth Century, and over the course of the next four centuries, it had spread across the northern bank of the Thames. Roads and canals bisected every open space, encircling warehouses, chandlers’ yards, and the cheap boarding houses that were as commonplace here as in Whitechapel. Gambling houses, drug parlours and brothels of varying size and licentiousness clustered the wharves and canals as thick as fleas.
St. Cyprian and the others were on the northern side of the river, behind the high wharves, and down the gullet of crooked cul-de-sac, near the Limehouse Causeway. Posters for Smith’s Crisps and Blue Band Margarine warred for wall space with advertisements for Levy and Franks Licensed Caterers and a number of gaudy adds for hosiery, and a damp pall hung over everything. From an open window somewhere above, a record-player spat Clarence and Spencer Williams’ ‘Royal Garden Blues’ into the grey afternoon and the notes drifted down over the crowded street like rain drops.
“I don’t see why we’re looking for an opium addict when we should be looking for a killer,” Morris said, glaring about him as if the squalor of Limehouse was a personal affront. Then, to Morris’ way of thinking, it probably was. He’d brought backup, like a sensible bureaucrat. A sextet of men had come with them to the cul-de-sac. The Ministry plods were dressed to blend in and likely armed to the teeth. That gave them a rather hefty fighting force. Somehow, I doubt it’ll be enough, St. Cyprian thought as he recalled the red eyes he’d seen in the garret. He shivered and looked at Morris.
“We’re looking for Mr. Jadwiga for the very simple reason that our killer will be searching for him as well, Morris. And it’s in our best interests to see that we find him first.” St. Cyprian looked at Gallowglass. “Think you can pull off a bit of quiet observation without murdering anyone?”
“No promises,” she said, chin tilted up, eyes half-closed as she bobbed slightly to the music drifting down. With her hands thrust into her pockets and with the brim of her cap low over her face, she sauntered out of the alleyway and towards the laundry, weaving through the steady stream of people moving back and forth along the crooked street with ease. If there was one place in London where Gallowglass wouldn’t be noticed, it was Limehouse.
Like Whitechapel, Limehouse wasn’t nearly as bad as it had been twenty years before, or even ten. That said, it was still something of a scab on London’s knee. With the war over and the ports open, Limehouse tottered on, and its contributions to the seedier elements of London’s reputation with it. Too, there was the added fact that even a year and some change past the war, the overcrowded streets were still full of khaki uniforms. Many returning soldiers had gravitated to the East End and Limehouse in particular, looking for cheap accommodations and even cheaper entertainments—opium, for instance. Opium dens had never been numerous, and these days th
ey were even less so, but you could still find them, if you had the need. While St. Cyprian had never sought to drown his senses in any drug stronger than a good brandy, he fully understood the desire to do so. People had an amazing capacity for self-medication when they’d seen something they’d rather not have.
“How do we even know he’ll be here?” Morris said, glowering at his men. One of them made to answer, his face flushed. The Ministry’s street-level assets had a tense relationship with the upper offices. Most of the former had been detective-inspectors or uniformed constables unlucky enough to see something in the course of investigations that the latter thought they shouldn’t, and had been duly inducted into the Ministry’s service, whether they liked it or not.
“We know, because he has a pattern of behaviour, Morris. He’s an addict, a lotus eater, to use the classical term and likely to go chasing the dragon when things get rough,” St. Cyprian interjected, sparing the unlucky plod Morris’ wrath. “And addicts have their favourite spots to indulge their vices just as surely as a drinker has a favourite pub. According to these doughty constables, this is Jadwiga’s hidey-hole.” He jerked his chin towards the laundry, where a number of rough looking customers were loitering about just inside the premises. Luckily, the cul-de-sac was crowded enough that their presence attracted nothing more than cursory glance.
“Yes, but—” Morris began.
“Morris, do you often argue with consultants? I mean, about something other than their fee?” St. Cyprian said softly. “After seeing what he saw, our prodigal spiritualist probably wanted nothing more than to sink himself into opium fumes.”
The Whitechapel Demon Page 5